


“Not bad for an old locksmith.”

by Sweetloot



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, York lives, because that's a tag we need to use more, kind of a bitter tasting fic sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:46:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetloot/pseuds/Sweetloot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'That was against regulations.'</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Not bad for an old locksmith.”

Getting shot was not fun.

Almost getting blown up? Equally not as fun.

York appreciated want Delta did, faking his death so people would stop trying to kill him all the time, but waking up alone, with what amounted to a person being in his head for years suddenly missing? It wasn't exactly a pleasant experience.

Getting shot had not been something York had planned on doing when he agreed to help Tex get into Wyoming's base, having his empty shell of armor get blown up by a friend he hadn't seen in years was also not something he was planning, but trying to plan for everything in life wasn't something he could do so he just rolled with it.

Actually, he crawled with it. Working his way painfully, piece by piece out of his armor was not something he wanted to do ever again. York was banking on whoever came to collect his equipment (and, subsequently, blow up his body because Delta parroted protocol at him as he was removing his gear) had enough respect for the dead as to not go poking at him or something because their armor didn't exactly snap together like Legos without a body in it. 

Just as he worked his way over the ledge and out of side, he heard the incoming sound of a Pelican, the sound of the hanger bay doors opening, and the sound of heavily armored boots landing on the roof. 

York didn't want to be seen, but needed to know where this person was so he could make a (very slow) run for it.

He wasn't expecting to see Wash.

It was hard to miss the neon yellow on stainless steel color palette the younger man was so found of. Looks like even years later he was still partial to looking like a highway. It could have been someone else, someone who just had the same color armor, but all doubt was squashed when the solider moved towards his body, activating Delta.

“Prime display activated. Restoring functions.” Delta glitched for a moment, trying to reboot. “Hello, how may I be of assistance to you?”

“Instruction: identify yourself.”

There was no doubt that was Wash...though he sounded off, cold, professional. Not like the younger rookie he knew.

“Executing; I am intelligence program Delta, as created for the special operative program Freelancer. I have been assigned to agent Foxtrot Twelve. Or, York. My assignment was recently killed in combat.”

“I noticed. Hold on.” Wash moved to activate his radio.

Well, that wasn't exactly the stirring response York thought he would get, not like he was expecting an epic to be recited or anything, but a little show of emotion wouldn't hurt. He had thought Wash had gotten better, but it appeared he was wrong.

York knew about what happened with Epsilon, knew that it fucked up his friend's head, almost killing him, but he hadn't seen it for himself, regrets not being able to be there for Wash. North had told him about visiting Wash with South, how he seemed...off, like he was trying to be himself but couldn't get all the pieces to fit just right. By the time York could see him everything was falling apart and he had to leave, getting out of Project Freelancer with Delta as his only companion. 

“Come in, Command. This is Recovery One. I've located the Delta A.I. He appears in tact.”

 _Recovery One_. Must be Wash's new handle. York refused to think of him with it though. He'd always be that too eager rookie, falling over his own skateboard to him. 

York shook the thoughts from his head, this wasn't the same person he knew, as much as it hurt to admit.

York couldn't hear what Command was saying, only getting one side of the conversation, but from what he could tell, they were talking about his equipment.

The time between getting shot and Wash showing up to collect his gear wasn't enough time to heal him completely, but it did speed up the process enough that he wasn't going to die...yet. The blood had stopped flowing though so that was a relief. He just had to be careful with his breathing, the newly formed skin on his lungs likely still paper thin.

Delta was saying something, from the sound of it he was relaying the data he had collected about his armor and equipment. Whatever he had said, must have impressed Wash, if only slightly.

“Not bad for an old locksmith.”

Hey, he wasn't _that_ old. He wasn't fresh out of basic training but he wasn't exactly ready for retirement. York took a little comfort in the way Wash said that though, maybe he still felt some warm feelings towards one of his oldest friends.

“Hey, need you to start a countdown for me. One hundred on the clock.”

York was torn between being disappointed that Wash didn't appear to be mourning for him, and feeling relief that soon Wash's job would be over and York could make his escape.

York shook his head off those thoughts though. Wash had a job to do, he couldn't let emotions cloud his judgment. Even though York was no longer a part of the world Wash still occupied, he still knew that the job came first and right now Wash's job was to collect, detonate, and leave.

And York's job was to not stand around waiting to get blown up or bleed to death like an idiot.

Delta hadn't lied when he said that York wouldn't survive, he just omitted a bit of context. York wouldn't survive if he didn't get medical help, but he did have a bit of time, so York took one last look at his long time friend, and slowly made his way away from the base to an adorning building. Wyoming's base was huge, so getting far enough away from the impending explosion was easy enough. 

Finding a phone, not so much.

By the time he had found a phone and made the call, he was feeling light headed, struggling not to move to much. The shaking the walls made when the count down hit zero did not help with keeping his breathing steady.

Eventually the ambulance arrived, a firetruck quickly following. York knew he was in for a questioning, but didn't really care as black spots started popping into his vision, the paramedics lifting him up, placing him on a gurney and rushing him into the back of an awaiting ambulance. York could stave off the questions long enough to get patched up and escape. He might be an “old locksmith” but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

As the ambulance drove off, lights blinking away into the distance, a figure stood several roofs away, keeping his distance as the firetrucks attempted to put out the blaze.

 _'That was against regulations.'_ The text was a bright, neon green, too bright and unexpected scrolling across the inside of his visor.

Wash squinted his eyes, both in frustration and annoyance. “I thought I told you to get into storage.”

The screen flashed again, a new message appearing. _'Technically, I am in storage. I have just yet to shut down all of my communication parameters, hence my message to your HUD.'_

“Great, you can work loopholes, good to know. Now shut down.”

_'If I may, Agent Washington, why did you go against protocol?'_

“Why did you?”

_'I am a logic based AI, gathering intelligence is simply a part of my programming, and right now I gather that this was an emotional based response rather than simply disobeying orders.'_

“I owed him, simple as that.”

_'How did you gather than York was not in the suit?'_

Wash tapped a finger against his helmet. “Motion tracking and heat sensing. The beacon hadn't been going long enough for York's body to have cooled, that and York was never very stealthy, at least compared to everyone else. My scanners picked him up moving just over the ledge.”

_'Very interesting reasoning, Agent Washington, but why let him live? Surely you should have reported his status to Command, thus making his termination the next logical choice. A free agent running around would not be something Command would tolerate, never mind the Director's opinion on the matter.'_

“What, did you _want_ met to kill him?”

The AI seemed to falter, as much as and intelligence program typing onto a screen can falter anyway. _'No, that was not what I was insinuating at all. I was merely curious.'_

“Well, stop being curious. I let him live, end of story. “

_'Why did you not let him know that you knew he was alive? I'm sure he would have been pleased to have his friend back.'_

“Disable communication with this HUD and enter shut down.”

_'Agent Washington.'_

“Program override, acknowledge last directive.”

_'Acknowledged.'_

Wash sighed, AI always got to him. 

He was about to leave when his radio chirped at him.

_“Recovery One, this is Command, we have a level one distress signal, immediate response necessary.”_

Wash tapped his radio, confused at Command's instruction. “I just wrapped that up, Command. I'm headed home.”

_“Negative, Recovery One, this is a new signal.”_

“That's the fifth one this month.”

_“Affirmative.”_

Wash sighs, heading for his jeep. “Alright, send me the coordinates.” Cranking the jeep, he heads off towards the new signal. “I'm on my way.”

Wash was tired, so tired of driving off to another beacon, the coin up in the air on whether or not he was about to find someone he had worked with or an unfamiliar face. 

York was the first beacon he had responded to that held a person he could call a friend. He hadn't heard from the others in along time, his gut churning as he drove, the thought of another person he knew dying, of him having to remain professional, cold, distant, of having to destroy the remains of friends without having a chance to mourn. 

Letting York live may have been against regulations, but having one less person to have to grieve was worth it.


End file.
